My Life and Cutting
My name is Ashley, I am a sixteen year old girl. I have been cutting for about a year. I live with my father and usually visit my mother on the weekends. I began cutting when my life began getting very hard and stressful. I hurt so much inside from being hung up on, not wanting to be seen, and lied to about everything. I was hurt, I was not being accepted by someone I loved so much. My parents found out through a friend’s parents and got very worried. They tried talking to me, checking my wrist and ankles, brought me to the hospital, gotten me Prozac, and also have put me in counselling. I stopped cutting myself for about two months but yearned to cut all the time especially within the first month. I have recently begun cutting again and I feel that it eases my pain. The sight of my blood pouring from within my body gives me satisfaction. It feels as though the blood is pain leaving the body. I was asked by my mom one night, ‘doesn’t it hurt?’ My reply to this question was, ‘the first time it hurt I cut myself really deep and it stung but only after I was satisfied with the cut. Now, it doesn’t hurt it feels great to pull that razor blade across a part of my body’. I have a depression problem and am on Prozac for it. I am also believed to have a chemical unbalance. I am unable to talk about my problems and why I cut with many people because I don’t know what to say or how to say it to them. I hurt so much inside from everything I’ve been through. I had a broken childhood, and have a messed up teenage life now. I am in a more stable environment than I was for my childhood however, I don’t know what will help.
Just Three Words
Most of the time, I feel like nothing. I’ve done so much to the one I love, and I can do nothing but hate myself for it. Several times, he’s threatened to kill himself and I’ve had to basically drown in my tears to get him to stop, all while on the phone. His words ‘stop crying, Ashley’ haunt me for some reason. I told him so many times that I love him, and he told me ‘you say that one more time and I’ll kill myself, I swear to God’. And I couldn’t take it. I feel like I’ve been stabbed so many times, ‘I can’t… I can’t say it… I can’t…’ ‘You know you want to. Just three words. Say them. Just three words.’ ‘I can’t… I just can’t… I don’t want you to die… I don’t want you to die… Don’t die… Don’t… Please…’ ‘Just three words…’ I can’t sleep because of this. I can’t live with myself. Even in the ‘happy’ moments that I have with him, I can’t get those words out of my mind. And so, I cut. I have so many cuts now. Must be over 1500. At least 150 on my left foot, same for my right. More than 175 on my right leg, none on my left. I haven’t bothered to count all the cuts I have on my left arm, there are too many, and they’re too close together. I have counted one row, I guess, of them. Came to approximately 250. I have three rows like this. The other rows are approximately 125 cuts each, and I have four of these. On my right arm, I have 25 cuts. On my left palm, I have about 20. If I counted right, there’s over 1650 cuts. On the left side of my right leg, there’s the word ‘WHY’ carved. On the right side, there’s the word ‘SEAN’. On my right foot, there are the words ‘NO REASON TO LIVE’ carved. On my left, ‘SEAN’ and two ‘PAIN’s. Why do I cut, you ask? Because I love the blood, and I want to feel the pain that I caused my beloved. I hate what I’ve done, and I want to suffer for it. Even though I feel the pain from hearing ‘Just three words’ and ‘You say that one more time and I’ll kill myself, I swear to God’ all day, I don’t think it’s enough pain. Never enough pain to make up for what I did to him. Never.
I’ve been cutting since I was twelve years old and I am fifteen now. I cut when I’m sad when people in school are bothering me and the teachers don’t want to believe what I am saying so that is why cutting is something that helps but I’m not saying that you should start. The reason I tell you this is when you start it’s almost impossible to stop.
My name is Ashley. I have been SI’ing since I was ten. Now I’m twelve and I can not seem to stop. My life turned upside down when my best friend started being really mean to me and I just couldn’t handle it. So I would just scratch and scratch at my arms. But during the summer it got even worse. My uncle moved in. It seemed like every day we were in a fight and my mom would always yell at me. Then 6th grade started. I was having so much fun at school until I came home. I would stay in my room and sometimes cry hour after hour. Then at ten or eleven at night I would start to do my homework. I started getting bad grades in math but that was normal. Then just about a month ago I decided to tell my friend Sarah about my self-harm. She seemed pretty cool with it and said it was OK because she had tried. Things turned back to normal and I was having fun again. I started snapping rubber bands on my wrist like Sarah did and figured I wouldn’t cut. But I was so wrong. No matter how much pain it was, snapping the rubber bands when I had to cut. So I just cut again without telling her. Because once she said if i did it again she wouldn’t talk to me and I knew she was serious. And right now it seems that she’s not my friend anymore and she hardly ever talks to me. I haven’t cut in about a week. But I don’t think it will last for long.
A Letter About Myself
Hi, my name is Ashley. I’ve never done this kind of thing before and I’d rather not give my last name. I’ve been cutting for about five years. No one notices and no one cares. My mother has been married six times. My sister moved out when she was sixteen and after she left I felt alone. My mom doesn’t abuse me or anything like that. She’s just never there. My little brother’s real dad was my dad in my heart for about ten years. Then one night he got drunk and “touched” me in places that he wasn’t suppose to. I’ve been cutting ever since then. I feel like I’m worthless. Like no one on this earth feels the same way I do. But then I saw your website. I read the stories in it. And I knew I wasn’t alone and maybe if they got help so could I. My wrist looks like I got in a fight with a lawn mower and I know it’s wrong but I just can’t stop. It’s my only way out. I’m causing my own pain. No one else is. It kind of gives me a sense of control. I’m controlling my pain not someone else. Only me. I’ve thought about committing suicide many times. And I’m still considering it. I have nothing left to live for. But I want to know is there a way out?
It Made Everything Better Until it Made Everything Worse
“Well, it’s no use your talking about waking him,” said Tweedledum, “when you’re only one of the things in his dream”. You know very well you’re not real.” “I am real!” said Alice and began to cry. “You won’t make yourself a bit of realer by crying,” Tweedledee remarked: “There’s nothing real to cry about.” “If I wasn’t real.” said Alice — half laughing through her tears, it all seemed so ridiculous — “I shouldn’t be able to cry.” “I hope you don’t think those are real tears?” Tweedledee interrupted in a ton of great contempt. — Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.
In a way, this book is a perfect analogy to my life. I was Alice and my parents were Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Nothing made sense anymore, everything had become distorted with lies and confusion. There was never any communication between either of us, creating a large gap in our reality, and here I was a little girl trying to fill the burning void.
According to my mother, I was an upset child. Sometimes there was nothing possible to calm me, so my parents left me, alone, to comfort myself, out of their desperate frustration, yes, understandable, but they wouldn’t realise the damage of their choices until later.
I became completely independent by the time I was two. I no longer wanted to be held, or touched for that matter, because I craved it so much. I became scared of myself because I couldn’t control my feelings most of the time. I began to see myself as a ‘monster’ a devil child, a freak. At this young age I wasn’t sure how to show my worries and frustration, so I would take it out on other people. I would hit and yell and my parents and siblings, I was over-controlling of the other kids at day care, I was what some would call I ‘rebel’. At this time, my parents still unsure of what to do, decided punishment was to ‘correct’ my ‘imperfections’. My dad would use belts, Tabasco sauce, soap, flyswatters, hell, anything he could get his hands on would work. I remember every time he would “punish” me he would say “Ashley, you are a bad, bad, bad girl, this is why you are being hurt, you deserve it”. I would look into his eyes and I saw enjoyment, he liked hurting me, this was his way of control and power, to this day he still enjoys it. But the thing that confused me most, was that I didn’t know the real reason I was being punished, all I knew was that I was a ‘bad girl’ and ‘bad’ people are suppose to be in pain. This is where it all started, my self-abuse…
My mother said it started when I was four. We had just moved into a new home for the arrival of my sister. My mom had a horrible pregnancy and was constantly sick. So one day, my mom was upstairs vomiting, while I was downstairs by myself. There were boxes and objects scattered throughout the house. There was a full body mirror leaning up against the wall, I knocked it over and it shattered. I had tried to clean it up so my mom wouldn’t be mad, but ended up gashing my little hand. By this time my mom had come downstairs and was shocked, here was a four year old with shattered glass all around her, while she was gushing blood, and all I would say was “look mom, funny” and laughed. However I do not remember this incident, but I still have a scar on my hand.
The first time I remember intentionally hurting myself was when I was eleven. I had learnt to put my feelings into stories and poems, I loved to write, when I was writing I was free. Although, my poetry was severely disturbing. One day I was at school, my mom had read my book, she freaked, she called my therapist at the time, who told her to call a suicide intervention worker, who came to my school and took me home. There, I was exposed, all my feelings, worries and fears were on the table in front of a stranger and my parents. I was being yelled and pried at. And then something happened, I heard my fathers voice from when I was a little girl, “bad, girl, hurt, deserve echoed in my head, I stood up and ran to the kitchen where I grabbed a round pizza slicer and bolted to my room. I took the round blade and held it to my wrist and made sliced, it felt so right, I had just punished myself for being ‘bad’, it all made too much sense. All of the sudden, my parents and the worker burst into my room, to find me covered with blood, they called the police, who against my will, brought me to the local hospital, where I was admitted to the psychiatric unit, which I didn’t know would be my retreat for the next three years.
Crazy, I went crazy. I hated myself and everyone around me. Cutting had become so important to me, it kept me sane for brief moments, and that was all that mattered. But cutting got to the point where it didn’t work as well as it used to, which lead to multiple, failed, suicide attempts. My life just kept getting worse. I got kicked out of my school, I lost friends and family, and eventually, placed in foster care, hospitals and treatment facilities. I hated when I wasn’t allowed to hurt myself, I went even more crazy, they would take away all ‘sharps’, but they didn’t only take away objects in which I could hurt myself with, they took away my control. This stupid game went on for two more years. Eventually people gave up on trying to protect me, they came to realise the fact that if I needed to hurt myself I would. And as soon as they let go, I did too.
I became more aware of my cutting, and why I needed to do it. As soon as I understood it, it decreased. But here I was left with a body full of scars, and I would slip into one track thinking, “I’m covered in scars anyways, what’s a couple more going to hurt”, but I could quickly get back on track with the help of others.
I’m not going to lie. I still hurt myself, and I think in some way or another I always will. But I no longer look at is as “I’m a bad girl, I need to hurt myself”. It’s more of a natural instinct now, it’s just what makes me feel better when nothing else can. And I know to most people, this is ‘unacceptable, immature, weak, behaviour’. But they will never understand the pain I have encountered in my short life, and this really is nothing but my coping mechanism, and underneath it all, I’m strong, I’m a fighter, but most of all I’m a survivor.
My name is Ashley, I am fourteen years old, I’m a cutter, and I’m proud.
Before I SI I have a feeling of extreme self hate and disgust. It wells up so strong that I become someone else. I feel completely numb and have no self control. I don’t remember cutting myself but when I am done I feel relieved, back to my old self. Then I clean up my cuts, bandage them, and hide them from the world. Is there anyone else out there like me, that loses touch with reality when they SI? I would love to talk to someone who has the same experience. It didn’t, however start that way… it’s gotten progressively worse. When I started cutting I was in the 3rd grade and it just felt good. Now it has become something I can’t control.
I started cutting at the age of 11. I’m 17 now. I hate myself for doing but I can’t stop I don’t want to stop. My friends threaten me to pour lemon and salt on my wounds but they don’t realise I like it. I love cutting myself but when I’m done I start dissing on myself about how weak I am for giving into the urge. But that’s the way of life right? I hope so. I don’t go to counselling, I tried but just didn’t like her. I get along better with guys, I think it’s because I was raised around guys. I am always feeling lonely and the only way I feel better and not alone is to cut myself. I have 2 or 3 really good friends that I really open up to. Only one of them is a girl her name is Sam. I get criticised by peers because I’m a bisexual female and they are all Christians (no offence to you guys just speaking my heart). People call me a freak because I don’t talk nor do I act like them. Well that’s all I’m going to say for now. I’ll talk to you all later. If you would like to talk to me about your personal problems or talk to me to get to know me better my e-mail is email@example.com or firstname.lastname@example.org. Thank you for reading this.
About 4 years ago my sister was molested by one of her friends. My parents blamed my twin brother and I. That if we would have told them then my sister would not be as “screwed up” as she is now. Then two years ago my mother was diagnosed with depression and PTSD. We always just thought oh well, we are bad kids, that is why mommy is angry, but she had a really mental problem. Then a year and a half ago I was almost raped. I got away but I keep remembering how the guy was trying to hold me down. Then at the beginning of the summer my mom was put into a mental hospital for severe and complicated PTSD. I was so upset I was wondering why in hell did I have to be born. Mommy would be OK if it wasn’t for me. Lately the guy that tried to rape was put in juvi for attempted rape to another girl. I felt so guilty like yet again if I told then she would not have gotten hurt. I feel guilty all the time like its my fault.
When my mom left for the hospital, that’s when I started seeing the blades etc. and feeling like I really wanted to hurt myself. I finally did and now I can not stop. I have been able to hide the marks on my legs, hips, and wrist I just feel better when I do it. But then somebody actually noticed and told my swim coach. And now she says she is gonna check to make sure she doesn’t see any new marks. I am now working with a therapist and trying to get help. But it really is not working.
Where to begin? Ever since they split up last year, I couldn’t cope. “I must stay strong,” I told myself. “I must cope,” I thought. Wrong. There was only so much of a brave face I could put on and only so much acting I could do, around school, to friends, family and teachers.
One night I just did it, only a few cuts with a pair of scissors. It was enough to bleed and enough to make me feel better, and in control. I was keeping all my feelings locked away, not telling anybody about how I was coping, or how I was feeling. I was so mixed up inside, couldn’t get used to my parents’ separation. But I needed a release. I didn’t think I could get this release from talking, didn’t think anybody cared. I am a secretive person who doesn’t like to talk about personal feelings. I thought people would say “Don’t care about you Ashley” or “I’m not bothered Ashley, get on with it”. So I sat in my room that night, scissors in hand and did it. Watched the blood. Felt good. That was my way of venting my anger.
Afterwards I cried. I was shaking. Even though I felt so much better for doing it, I was scared. Felt like a freak.
Since then that has been my answer. Except it’s got worse, moved on to blades, more meaningful and deeper cuts, over both arms, legs and even by my ribs. I have such a big collection of blades, some sharp and ready for use. Some blunt that I have used. I am feeling so much pain inside, I just want it all out of me. I want to be normal. I hate feeling like this, hate all the hurt and upset and change inside me.
Hiding my arms is a nightmare. Wearing long sleeves 24 hours a day. I hope everyday that it won’t be hot, because then I feel more ‘normal’ wearing long sleeves.
Started to look in the mirror and hate what I saw. So now I deprive myself of food also. “I had a big lunch in school, mum”, I’d tell her — that means I don’t have to eat when I got home. Often throw my lunch away. Trained my body that it doesn’t get food. Hunger pains — means I am hungry and need food, but I never give in.
I feel so alone. Surrounded by people, yet feel so alone. I don’t feel normal. Yet it’s normal to cope with feelings, right?! Just so happens that cutting is my way of coping. I’m all mixed up with nobody to talk to. I have no self esteem. Fed up of putting on a “I’m fine” mask. Laughing on the outside, crying on the inside.
I thought I could cope but I can’t.
What do you do when you don’t feel pain from cutting anymore and it’s just the sight of blood? Well I tell you what I did I began to burn myself with candle wax and lighters. Why? Because I need to feel pain again, the sight of blood running from my cuts didn’t work anymore. So I cut my arms and my legs my thighs and my wrists. Why? Because the physical pain took my mental pain away. It relieved my stress but it would always come back at first I only did it about once a month even going back over old scars because the sight of scars made me sadder. I didn’t want them but I also couldn’t find a new way to discard my pain. It hurt for a while but I got immune to the pain of slicing things that I put hot melted candle wax on my cuts. It was working again, my pain went away. Now I am going to counselling because I wrote a poem about how I was going to commit suicide and things like that. I am still harming myself. I get mad and hold in my anger then I release it when I’m alone in my room. I cut open my arm and drip in the wax. I need help and it isn’t coming fast enough. How do I stop? Will it ever go away? I am afraid that the next time I do something I’m going to kill myself, and I really don’t want to die. But if I know it will stop the pain then I will do anything. Can you give me advice and help me along with my counsellors advice?